


Ulysses

by CaitlinFairchild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ACD Canon References, Anal Sex, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Sex, Retirement, Rimming, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:43:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is still and relaxed, drifting close to sleep, when Sherlock figures out the thing he wants to say.</p><p>“I like bees,” he murmurs into the warm, musky silence between them.</p><p>John’s breathing changes as he contemplates the non sequitur.</p><p>“I never knew you gave bees a second thought,” he says softly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ulysses

**Author's Note:**

> Just a sweet, fluffy shot of RetirementLock smut and romance.
> 
> Un-Beta'd because I wanted to get this posted; all mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> The poem referenced is one of my favorites, Tennyson's "Ulysses"; you can read the whole thing here:
> 
> [Ulysses](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174659/)  
>  
> 
> Soon I will return to the angst and/or weird sex. Enjoy the sugar rush in the meantime.
> 
>  
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr if you like:  
>    
> [CaitlinIsPiningforJohnlock](http://caitlinispiningforjohnlock.tumblr.com/)
> 
> or hit me up at CaitlinFairchild1976@gmail.com.
> 
>  
> 
> A million thanks to everyone for reading. You make my world go round.
    
    
    ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
    Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
    The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 
    To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
    Of all the western stars, until I die. 
    It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 
    It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
    And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
    Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ 
    We are not now that strength which in old days 
    Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; 
    One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
    Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
    To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

It’s late, almost three a.m., the deepest darkest hour before night turns the corner to morning. 

John is asleep, deeply so. In the dim light filtering in from the streetlamps, his careworn features are smoothed by slumber, making him look decades younger. He is curled on his side, his back pressed to Sherlock’s bare chest, his ribs moving smoothly with each deep, even respiration.

Sherlock is wide awake. He brushes a gentle hand over John’s flexed thigh, traces the edge of the gauze covering the fresh wound on his leg.

John Watson was shot tonight.

His life was almost ended by a petty criminal wielding a cheap, small-caliber pistol; inconceivable, almost, that a presence as large, as vibrant, as alive as John’s could almost be snuffed out by something barely larger than a flimsy toy.

Sherlock feels shaken to the very core. He finds himself sleepless in the warmth of their shared bed, keenly aware of their mortality, the fragility of their lives. He fears he will never be able to fall asleep again, replaying the events of the night over in his head again and again, on an endless agonizing loop.

***

It had been the end of a long and grueling night.

After a byzantine case of assumed identities and false fortunes, the pair finally cornered the American con man in a dim basement room full of counterfeiting equipment, the computers and 3D printers intended for making the fake identification chips that fetched a staggering fortune on the black market.

“Saw through my game, I suppose,” said James Winters in his true, nasally grating accent, “and you played me for a sucker from the first. Well, gentlemen, I hand it to you; you have me beat and--” 

Cornered and panicking, the sallow, wispy-haired man pulled out the tiny cheap MP25, firing blindly into the shadows.

John collapsed with a grunt of surprise, and without a moment of hesitation Sherlock launched himself at the wild-eyed shooter, mindless of the gun he was still waving madly about. Sherlock knocked him flat, sending the pistol clattering to the concrete floor. He snatched it up and jammed the muzzle against the man’s temple.

His heart hammered out a staccato tempo in time with the chattering terror of his brain. _JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_ \--

“Tell me you’re all right, John.” Sherlock failed to keep the edge of panic out of his voice. “For God’s sake, tell me you’re all right.”

“I’m okay. It’s just a scratch.” John staggered to his feet and took a tentative step towards Sherlock, then another. “I’m fine, I’m okay.” John pitched his voice lower, more soothing. “I’m fine. Give me the gun.”

Sherlock found his nerves unable to comply, his fingers seemingly frozen around the weapon. 

“Sherlock. Love. Please.”

Something in the soft endearment broke the spell. Sherlock stared levelly into the eyes of the terrified man underneath him. “If you had killed my husband,” Sherlock hissed, “You would have died in this room tonight.” He sat up, flipped on the pistol’s safety and handed the gun backwards to John.

Sherlock flipped Winters onto his stomach and cuffed him as John took the pistol and tossed it into the far corner of the room before sinking to the floor, clutching at his injured thigh.

“You think you’ve stopped us?” Winters asked, the sneer evident in his thin, reedy voice. “It’s going to take a lot more than a couple of old guys--”

“Gag him with his tie,” John growled in pain and irritation. Sherlock nodded in agreement, pulling the knotted black tie from around Winters’ neck and affixing it over his mouth, effectively stopping the man’s annoying nasal whine while John texted Lestrade their location. Sherlock then dropped to his knees, taking off his scarf in one fluid motion. He pressed the blue fabric against John’s thigh, making him flinch and hiss through his teeth.

“It’s just a graze,” John said, looking up into Sherlock’s wide eyes. He must have seen the terror Sherlock felt reflected there, for he made a visible effort to give him a faint but reassuring smile. “Sherlock, I swear I’m fine. It’s fine.”

“I should have killed him,” Sherlock spat. “His miserable life isn’t worth a single drop of your blood.”

John placed his hand over Sherlock’s. “I’m really very glad you didn’t,” he said softly. “Seeing you on weekends through bulletproof glass isn’t how I want to spend the rest of our marriage.”

Sherlock gazed at him, at an uncharacteristic loss for words. As the first officers on scene clambered noisily down the wooden staircase he raised his hands, mindful of the confusing gloom, gesturing with his head towards the bedraggled man cuffed face-down on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Lestrade’s shock of silver-white hair in the darkness as the DCI descended the steps. He turned his head, saw the Chief Inspector look at him with a questioning glance.

“Winters shot John,” Sherlock said, dropping his hands, fighting to keep the edge of panic out of his voice. “He needs medical attention.”

“It’s really nothing,” John protested. “Honestly, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took John’s shoulders, as if meaning to shake sense into him. “It’s not nothing!” he hissed. “If that man had killed you, if you were taken from me, John, I don’t know what--I can’t even think of--”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s voice carried sharply through the dusty, gloomy air. “I came out here on your say-so, it better be good. Let the EMTs look at John and come tell me what the hell’s going on.”

Sherlock ignored Lestrade, studying John’s face intently, feeling as if, somehow, despite everything, he had never quite seen him before this moment. He reached out, cupped John’s chin in his large gloved hands and kissed him deeply, passionately, a kiss borne of desperation and fear and the spectre of loss.

Sherlock had never before displayed this kind of affection towards John in public, not once in all their years together, not even at their wedding. He could hear the collective jaws of NSY dropping behind them and for once in his life couldn’t be bothered to care one whit.

After several long breathless moments Sherlock broke away, gulping for air, and rested his forehead against John’s. “I love you,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice trembling. “I love you more than anything else in this world.”

“It was worth it, then, wasn’t it?” John said, a bit breathless but smiling. “Just to hear you say those words. It was worth it.”

***

It was, in the end, barely more than a scratch; a painful groove where the bullet gouged the skin of John’s outer thigh, but nothing that required a trip to A&E.

After giving brief statements to Lestrade and refusing transport to hospital for the tenth time, Sherlock half-helped, half carried John out of the grimy Brixton tenement and manhandled him into a cab. At Baker Street the pair navigated the steps slowly (“It doesn’t matter that no one else is about, Sherlock, you are NOT carrying me up the stairs like a bloody blushing bride!”) and in the bathroom Sherlock helped cut off John’s ruined jeans and get him into a hot shower.

The pair had treated enough minor wounds at home for it to be a bit routine by now; John packed the gouge with antibiotic ointment and Sherlock helped tape on a square of gauze and wrap his leg to hold the bandage in place.

It was almost one in the morning before the pair made it into bed, Sherlock carefully arranging John on his side, bandaged leg on top. “I wish we had something you could take for the pain,” grumbled Sherlock, feeling guilty that he was the reason John couldn’t even keep co-codamol in the flat.

“It stings like hell,” said John, “I won’t lie. But I’m so damn tired I’ll sleep just fine, love. Really I will.”

***

True to his word, John sleeps peacefully despite his injury.

Sherlock curls himself around his husband, seeking comfort in the warm, solid vitality of the body as familiar to him as his own.

John runs warm, compared to Sherlock; his compact form radiates heat as he sleeps, and Sherlock gravitates to it like a plant seeking sunlight. Mindful of the bandage, he carefully envelops John with his long arms and legs. He places a large hand over John’s chest, feels the steady beat of the heart underneath his palm.

The idea that a criminal’s bullet could stop that heart sends a ripple of sick, cold fear through Sherlock. He and John had confronted danger so many times in their years together, but tonight was the first time a bullet had pierced John’s flesh because of Sherlock, and the grim reality of it shakes him him to the core.

It’s a sobering reminder of their mortality. Mortality has been on Sherlock’s mind frequently, as of late.

Sherlock tucks his face into the humid curve where John’s neck meets his shoulder, tasting the skin there. John’s skin is warm and damp, slightly salty from sleep. Delicious, he thinks, mouthing and nibbling at the tender flesh. John is always delectable, he always tastes and smells and feels so wonderful--

“Sh’lock?” John mumbles, fuzzy and half-awake. “You ok, love?”

Sherlock feels a twinge of guilt at waking John up by basically chewing on him and squeezing him half to death. “I’m sorry, John,” he says, loosening his cephalopodic hold just a fraction.

“No, s’ok.” John yawns and arches a bit, causing his arse to press into Sherlock’s groin. John chuckles, low and rough from sleep. “I guess you’re awake, then,” he murmurs affectionately, reaching back to stroke Sherlock’s impressive erection through his thin pyjama bottoms.

“Oh.” Sherlock hadn’t even quite realized he was so hard, but now with John fondling him the ache and need sparks into sudden flame, grown too strong to ignore. He gasps softly, pressing into John’s caressing palm.

“I shouldn’t have woken you,” Sherlock murmurs. “I was just...” he loses track of his words as John squeezes him gently. “You’re so warm,” he whispers into John’s hair, previous thoughts eclipsed by the growing need in his belly, the powerful desire to touch and hold and feel John all around him.

“It’s alright,” John breathes, soft and fond. “I’m glad I didn’t miss this.” He moves his hand away from Sherlock’s cock to his hip, pulling him close and very deliberately grinding his arse back against his hard length. “We could do it like this, if you want.”

Sherlock pushes against the welcoming softness of John’s rear, growling just once, low and quiet.

They don’t often do it this way; Sherlock is unabashed in his enjoyment of the way John fucks him, and John is enamored of Sherlock’s enthusiasm, and like all longtime couples they have fallen into a bit of a routine. But right now Sherlock is desperate to feel John, to sink into the heat of his body, to be as close to his beating heart as he possibly can. “Yes,” he purrs, pulling John’s hips tight against his own. “Yes. I would like that.” He has a moment of clarity, stills the insistent movement of his hips, picks up his head. “Are you sure your leg’s up for it?”

“It’s fine. Just don’t put pressure on the bandage, no worries.”

Sherlock hums softly in assent and dips his head down, kisses John behind his ear. John exhales, almost purring as Sherlock breathes in the scent of his hair, the sharp floral aroma of recent shampoo overlaying the faint musky tang of sleep. He nibbles on his neck, kisses the curve of his shoulder as his dextrous fingers find and untie the tapes of John’s pyjama bottoms.

(Years ago, in the early heady days when every moment behind closed doors was a festival of shagging on all horizontal (and most vertical) surfaces, they had preferred to sleep naked, curled up into one another, physically inseparable even in sleep. Soon enough, however, reality intruded in the form of urgent late-night visits from Lestrade and Mycroft showing up at the crack of dawn unimpeded by any number of locked doors and Mrs. Hudson thinking nothing of bringing clients up at all hours imaginable, and after a few awkward encounters--well, awkward for John, mostly; Sherlock had no compunctions about the comfort level of others if they showed up uninvited in his home--they compromised on sleeping in pyjama bottoms, no shirts, as a concession to modesty while still maintaining the skin contact they both so craved.)

John lifts up a bit to make the task a bit easier, and Sherlock slides the fabric over John’s hips and down his legs, taking special care to be gentle as he eases the material over the gauze wrapping around his left thigh. He mouths his way down John’s spine as he works the bottoms off, kicking them aside and making quick work of his own. He slides down the bed as he places small, chaste kisses on John’s flank, nibbles gently on the soft flesh at the curve of his hip, making John squirm and breathe out small panting noises.

“Love handles,” Sherlock murmurs into his skin, then licks at the warm damp flesh. “Perfectly named. Excellent placement for ideal leverage.”

“That’s one way of saying I’m turning into a chubby old man,” John says with quiet, amused affection.

“You are indeed,” murmurs Sherlock. “How lucky for you I find myself profoundly attracted to chubby old men. Well, one in particular, really.” He picks up the pillow his head had been resting on previously and places it in front of John, gently moves his top leg forward to rest on it. “Is that comfortable?”

“Mmm. Perfectly,” murmurs John.

Sherlock shifts down a bit, nibbles gently at the swell of his buttock. “We haven’t done it this way in quite a while,” he says, and uses long fingers to gently part his cheeks, exposing his most private place. “I need to make sure you’re absolutely relaxed and ready for me.”

John gasps into the comforter at the first wet swipe of Sherlock’s tongue against his entrance, settling into a long string of soft animal moans as Sherlock gently coaxes the tight puckered flesh to relax, cajoling with gentle swirls and teasing with short catlike licks. He tastes wonderful, soap and clean sweat and the muskiness of sleep-warm flesh, and Sherlock is gentle yet relentless, working him open, nudging his pointed tongue past his tight rim as John writhes and cries out in pleasure.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John breathes as his tongue finally works its way inside of him, teasing him, leaving him open and dripping wet with saliva. “God, that feels so good, fuck.” Sherlock lifts his head and kisses the small of his back as he slips a finger into his relaxed opening, making John gasp out a string of small incoherent sounds as he arches his back and clenches tightly around the intrusion.

“It’s all right, I’ve got you,” Sherlock whispers into the back of his neck. “Just let go. I’ve got you.” After several moments the tightness around his finger eases and Sherlock pulls out, sliding back in with two fingers, slowly twisting and pressing, making John ready for him. The angle a bit awkward, Sherlock turns his wrist, pressing just a bit forward, and--

“Oh fuck fuck fuck, yes, that’s it,” John breathes, wrapping a hand around his stiff cock as Sherlock brushes against his prostate. “That’s so good, oh fuck that’s good,” he moans as he begins to rock back against Sherlock’s probing fingers. “I'm good, love, I want you --”

“Patience,” Sherlock murmurs as he pulls his fingers out of John’s loosened opening. “It’s been longer than you think, and I don’t want to hurt you.” John whimpers a bit at the loss of him as Sherlock turns to his other side to dig in the bedside table drawer. He finds the bottle and rolls back over, popping open the cap and slicking the fingers of his left hand.

“Jesus, Sherlock, just hurry up and--oh fuck, oh fuck, _oh_ \--” John’s words devolve into a low, drawn out moan as Sherlock slides three fingers inside of him. “Oh Jesus.”

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asks him.

“Tight,” John gasps. “It’s a bit--Just give me a--” Sherlock stills his movements, gives John a moment to adjust to the feeling of increased fullness. “Okay. Better. Keep going.”

Sherlock steadily works John open with his fingers, pushing and twisting gently, making sure to brush his prostate with every movement as John strokes himself, breathing hard into his pillow. Sherlock feels him relax, begin to push back against the thrust of his fingers.

“I’m ready, love,” John whispers. “Please, now, I want to feel you.”

Sherlock stills his fingers, pulling them out of the tight clench of John’s body, and hurriedly slicks himself up before taking his cock in hand and pushing into that welcoming heat, and oh, Christ, he had forgotten how good it could feel like this. He sinks in just a bit past the head of his cock and stills, resists the impulse to push forward as John slowly lets out his held breath. “Just relax for me,” Sherlock murmurs, quelling his body’s desire to thrust hard as he kisses the back of John’s neck. “Breathe out and relax. It’s all right. I’ve got you.” John nods, and Sherlock pushes in an inch at a time, the slow measured pace both a pleasure and a frustration. 

“I’m not made out of glass, Sherlock,” John says with a tiny huff of a chuckle. “You won’t break me, you know.”

“I’d rather not take the chance,” murmurs Sherlock. “Besides, I don’t have anywhere else I’d rather be right now.”

After several long minutes of gentle rocking and thrusting, Sherlock is almost fully seated inside John’s body. “Just come on already,” John urges him, and Sherlock finally gives in, thrusting home with a gasp, making John moan low in his throat. The primal neediness of the sound combines with the feel of John all around him, making the need inside Sherlock flare up into a burning urgency. He begins to move in earnest, surrendering to the gorgeous velvet heat of John, his passage still so tight despite Sherlock’s careful ministrations.

“Is it good?” Sherlock purrs, pulling John’s hips flush with his own.

“It’s amazing,” John huffs a laugh in between soft panting grunts. “Remind me why we don’t do it this way more often.”

“Creatures of--ahhhh--habit, I suppose,” Sherlock breathes, and kisses his hair as he rolls his hips in a measured, deliberate pace, making John whimper and squirm against him.

“Habits should change,” pants John as he grinds himself back on Sherlock, seeking more depth, more pressure, just plain more. “You feel fantastic. Jesus, Sherlock. Oh. _Fuck_.”

Sherlock shifts up a bit, changes the angle, fucking John with deeper, more deliberate thrusts while his hand finds John’s smaller one closed around his cock. His fingers curl over John’s as their joined hands stroke in time with his thrusts and John breathes out low bitten-off cries.

“I should tell you every day,” Sherlock whispers into his ear, the feeling behind the words making the tightness in his belly spiral even as unshed tears prickle in his eyes. “It shouldn’t take almost losing you for me to say it--”

“”I know it, sweetheart,” John breathes. “I always, always know it.”

“I can’t live without you,” Sherlock says into the sweat damp skin of John’s shoulder. “You’re my whole life.”

“You’re mine,” John murmurs, low and rough. “You know that, you know you’re mine.”

Sherlock finds himself desperate to tell John the million things in his heart-- the way John is his light, his sun, the center of his universe, how afraid he is of mortality, of death, of loss, how he doesn’t know how he could ever bear to be parted from John again in this life--but he doesn’t know how to put this wave of emotion into words so he tries desperately to convey his love and need with his hands, his mouth, his body as he touches and holds and moves within his husband.

He hopes John understands.

He wants this feeling to last forever, this slowly cresting wave of pleasure, but it doesn’t, it can’t, and the need is growing stronger, coiling tight and hot in his belly. “John,” Sherlock says and it’s too soon, he wants to stay here forever but he’s overwhelmed with feeling, the warmth and life of John surrounding him, pulling him in, he can’t stop it. He tries to push off his climax, tightens his grip around John’s fist. “Come for me,” he pleads, “please, love, let me feel you,” and perhaps the rare, unexpected endearment is what does it but John comes, suddenly and hard, spurting over their joined hands.

“Sherlock, yes. Oh,” he breathes, shaking, as his come slicks their fingers. “ _Sherlock._ ”

The shivering spasms of John’s body and his name on John’s lips are more than Sherlock can withstand and he lets himself go, pounding into John hard and deep as his orgasm takes him, sweet silvery bliss starting low in his spine and pulsing out in electric waves, making him gasp as he snaps his hips hard one last time and spills hot and slick inside John’s tight passage. 

They lie still and gasp for breath together as the aftershocks spark and recede, leaving them limp and sweaty and spent. John winces and grumbles a bit when Sherlock pulls out, but huffs out a chuckle when Sherlock tugs his hair gently, tilting his head back for a proper kiss.

“Be a gentleman,” John murmurs against his lips, “and get me a wet flannel, would you?”

“First you make me do all the work, and now I have to get out of a warm bed,” Sherlock mock-complains.

“I’m the injured party here,” John points out, ”or did you forget already?”

“Hmph. Malingering, I’m sure of it,” Sherlock harrumphs but he’s smiling as he kisses John again for good measure before getting up to fetch the requested flannel.

***

John is still and relaxed, drifting close to sleep, when Sherlock figures out the thing he wants to say.

“I like bees,” he murmurs into the warm, musky silence between them.

John’s breathing changes as he contemplates the non sequitur.

“I never knew you gave bees a second thought,” he says softly.

“I admire their orderliness. Their planning. Their work ethic.” Sherlock is uncharacteristically hesitant; these thoughts are important, and he needs to make sure he’s understood. “John, I never thought about growing old. I never… on that day we met at Bart’s all those years ago, I didn’t want to die, exactly… but I didn’t know how to keep living, either. You saved me from that. You made me want to live. And I thought, well, that’s enough. It’s more than I ever hoped for, really, and I thought we’d keep on that way we are until the day I wasn’t fast enough, or clever enough, or… I never saw myself growing old. The decline, the decay. It was incompatible with how I saw myself. Fundamentally so.”

A bit overwhelmed by his own words, Sherlock pauses, feeling exposed and uncertain.

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” John prompts gently.

“But. Now, I… I never thought I could want anything else other than the work. I thought that when the inevitable day came, the day the work was beyond my abilities, that I.. I would be bested in the course of one of our adventures and it would be fine. I always planned to die how I lived. That always seemed fitting. I… I don’t want that, now. I don’t want to give those years up to some stupid murderous thug, or some foolish undertaking. I want to grow old, John. With you. I love the work, John. But I love you more. And I like bees.

“So, I could do that. Study them. Somewhere quieter. You could write those memoirs you’ve talked about.”

John is silent for a moment.

“You make it sound like we’re ancient,” he says softly, not in annoyance but in something that sounds close to acceptance.

“Lestrade’s retiring next year. Mrs. Hudson just turned eighty-five. You take blood pressure medication every day. We both need reading glasses to look at a restaurant menu. I’m not saying we’re old just yet. I’m saying we’re on the far side of fifty now and…” Sherlock mouths gently at soft silver hair. “I could be happy anywhere with you. And I like bees. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I guess I never thought about it much before.” John chuckles. “You know, I never really planned on getting this old.”

“Believe me, John, neither did I,” Sherlock says with quiet sincerity.

“I could garden,” John considers. “I’ve always wanted to try gardening. Maybe… maybe we could get a dog.”

“A dog,” Sherlock says, contemplating the notion. “I think… yes. We could do that.”

“You don’t mean right away, do you?” John asks. “I’m not ready to just--”

“No, no,” Sherlock reassures him, “not right away. I’m not ready to, either. It’s just...something I’ve been meaning to say.”

John pulls Sherlock’s arm tight around him. “You never stop surprising me.” He intertwines their fingers, kisses the back of his hand. “Whatever you want is fine with me.”

“What I want is you,” Sherlock murmurs. 

“And you have me,” John says. “London or countryside or anywhere you want to go, you’ll always have me.” He sighs a little. “ ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.’ ”

Sherlock can’t help but smile. He can picture it--John in a tattered jumper and wellies, pulling weeds, a shelter mutt of indeterminate parentage sleeping in a patch of sunlight, honeybees droning in a tangled hedgerow. He can see it all and he knows, he absolutely knows they will be happy.

“Tennyson, hm?” he murmurs, dropping one last kiss to John’s neck. “You remain a romantic to the end, Doctor Watson.”

“You make me one. G’night, love.” John sighs and snuggles back against him in sleepy contentment, soon drifting off to slumber. 

Sherlock holds his husband as he sleeps, and considers.

Maybe, with John at his side, growing old can be one more grand adventure.

Sherlock exhales, lets himself relax into the comfort of John’s flesh and skin and bones, feels the rise and fall of his ribs against his chest, the soft sound of his deep, even breathing. 

He allows the gentle rhythm to pull him into sleep. 

He dreams of Ulysses standing proud at the bow of his ship, waves lapping at the hull, as he sails into the peaceful sunset of the western shore.


End file.
